The Magpie's Song

“Some mornings sing to you like they know a secret. You just have to be quiet enough to hear it.”

I woke to the sound of a magpie warbling somewhere beyond the window, its song clear and distinct against the hush of early morning. Not like the magpies from back home in Broken Hill—their cries were longer, more deliberate, like old men telling stories across the paddocks, full of warning and pride. This city magpie sounded different. Lighter. Playful. Its voice rose and fell in melodic flutters, skipping across notes like it didn’t have anything to prove. Like it was singing just because the morning deserved a song.

For a few quiet minutes, I lay there and listened. Not moving. Just letting the sound carry me into a different kind of feeling—the kind that whispered, today might be different. Today might be safe.

The room glowed with that early light you only get when the sky is completely clear and the sun hasn’t risen high enough to bleach everything into sharpness. Pale gold light pressed against the frosted windows, diffused and soft, filling the flat with a kind of hush that made me want to tread carefully, like the day itself was still sleeping.

I wriggled out from under my blanket, moving slowly so I wouldn’t wake Ribbons, even though I knew she never really slept. The mattress made its usual creaky protest as I slid off it, and I reached for my socks before my toes hit the tiled floor. It was cool, not cold—just the kind of clean, tiled chill that made your feet feel awake. I liked it. It felt like the flat was acknowledging me, nodding good morning in its own quiet way.

Mum was already at the little bench, standing near the window, her back to me. The peanut butter jar sat open in front of her, the knife moving back and forth across the bread in slow, rhythmic strokes. She wasn’t rushing like she sometimes did when we had to leave quickly or pretend we weren’t there at all. This time, she moved with care. Like it mattered that each sandwich was neat and square, like she believed we might get to sit somewhere and eat them properly instead of wolfing them down between stops or in the backseat of the car.

She’d even cut off the crusts. I watched her do it—slice, turn, slice again—her movements precise, as if following a recipe that didn’t involve ingredients so much as memories. She used to do that when I was little and picky and everything had to be just right or I’d declare I wasn’t hungry. Back when love could be measured in lunchboxes and shapes cut out with cookie cutters.

There was a small pile of crusts next to her elbow, curling slightly as they dried in the morning air. Something about that small pile made my throat tighten. It looked like care. Like a mother who hadn’t given up.

Her phone lay face-down beside the peanut butter jar, silent and still, but I noticed her eyes flick toward it now and then. Just quick glances, not full turns. Like she was trying not to need it but couldn’t quite stop checking. Its dark screen reflected the underside of the cupboard and nothing more—no blinking messages, no missed calls, just a pocket of silence she wasn’t ready to break.

“Morning,” I said softly, still rubbing the last traces of sleep from my eyes with the backs of my hands, the edges of my dreams clinging to me like the scent of warm sheets.

Mum turned toward me straight away, as if she'd been waiting for me to speak. And the smile she gave—it wasn’t like the others. This one was real. Gentle. It curled around her eyes and softened the tired lines that worry had etched into her face.

“Good morning, Rose,” she said. “Guess what we’re doing today?”

But I already knew. The promise from the night before had been planted in my mind like a seed, and it had grown roots in my dreams and bloomed the moment I’d opened my eyes.

“The park?” I asked, careful not to sound too eager. I’d learned by now that getting too excited about things only made it more painful when they didn’t happen.

“The park,” she confirmed with a nod that felt like a promise etched in stone. “Downey Park. The one with the gardens, the swings, the corkscrew slide. I've packed everything we need for a proper day out.”

She gestured toward the canvas bag slouched against the sofa. It looked ready—crammed with the essentials of a real family outing. The corner of a sandwich wrap poked free, a water bottle lay snug beside what I thought might be a folded picnic blanket. I could see the edge of a biscuit packet peeking from beneath a rolled jumper. It felt... deliberate. Like she’d planned not just for food but for hope.

Mack appeared in the doorway, arms crossed over the front of his hoodie. He looked clean and ready, but his eyes were shadowed and sharp, already scanning for things that might go wrong. The grey fabric of his hoodie had gone soft and thin in places, especially near the hole in the front pocket, and it made him look smaller than usual—like the fabric was trying to shield him from something even he didn’t have words for.

“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked, voice level, gaze moving from Mum to the bag and back again. His concern wasn’t argumentative, just... alert. Protective.

“Of course it is,” Mum replied, her tone brisk but certain. “Fresh air. Sunshine. We need this. You need this. We’ve been cooped up too long.”

Mack didn't reply, not with words. But I saw the way his shoulders loosened slightly, how his stance softened. He didn’t approve, exactly, but he wasn’t going to stop it either. He disappeared back into the room, and I heard the soft clunk of the backpack zip opening again. Probably double-checking supplies. That was his way.

I climbed up onto one of the mismatched chairs at the tiny table and opened my notebook, smoothing down a fresh page. I took out the purple pen Mum had given me, its tassel fluttering slightly as I began to draw butterflies in the corner.

Little ones, big ones, some mid-flight, others with wings tucked gently as if resting on invisible petals. I gave each one a different pattern—loops, swirls, speckles—none of them perfect, but all of them trying to be beautiful. It felt like stitching a hopeful spell into the paper. If I could fill this page with light things, maybe the day would stay light too.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t ask more questions. I’d learned how fragile mornings like this could be—how easily they could snap beneath the weight of doubt or too much talking. Instead, I let the silence between us be soft, like warm air or gentle music. Mum hummed as she worked, a tune I didn’t know but liked all the same.

Outside, the magpie continued its song—bold and joyful, as if it knew secrets about the day ahead.

And for a moment, it felt like the world was giving us permission to breathe. To hope. To believe in a day that might unfold exactly as promised.